


Concealed Weapon

by WastingYourGum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Legends, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum
Summary: In which Mycroft's umbrella is a sword - and even the King begins to wonder…
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 53
Kudos: 161
Collections: Mystrade Is Magic, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	Concealed Weapon

Despite their long association, Greg had never been to Mycroft's country estate before. Somehow it was exactly what he'd expected; imposing gates, a long gravel drive, beautifully manicured lawns, and a huge frontage of large windows and even larger columns. It had the whole "Pride and Prejudice" stately home look about it. All that was missing was a ticket office, a tea shop and a glossy guidebook of the kind that had filled his mother's bookcases.

The car that had collected him from the Yard drew up under a portico at the main entrance. A slab of a man in a sharp suit opened the car door for him and Greg stepped out, grateful for the covering protecting him from the greasy rainfall.

A flash of lightning and the crack of distant thunder made him look round to where the chaos and calamity of central London was far behind them, an amber glow on the dark horizon.

"If you could follow me please, sir."

Greg nodded and tried not to let his jaw drop open as they entered a huge reception area with a magnificent double staircase. The walls were covered with enormous portraits, presumably of Holmeses of the past, and nearly every highly polished wood or marble surface was covered by beautiful arrangements of fresh cut flowers.

It was a staggering contrast to the riot and squalor he'd just come from. In an oasis of quiet and perfection like this you could almost believe the carnage in the capital wasn't even happening.

Almost.

Greg handed his overcoat off to another hulking member of Mycroft's security detail and waited patiently as a brief but thorough pat down search was performed.

Once the gorillas were happy he was as non-threatening as he appeared, he was shown straight through the doors between the stairs into a dining room fit for a state banquet. A long dark mahogany table ran up the centre of it, flanked by shining suits of armour. The walls here were a deep blood red and decorated with enough bladed weapons to equip a small army.

Mycroft sat at the head of the table at the far end of the room in front of a massive bay window. The curtains were open showing the colourful stained glass coats of arms on each section of the leaded panes but the world outside was in total darkness. He shuffled together the pile of papers in front of him and set aside his reading glasses as they approached.

"DI Lestrade, sir, as requested." The man stood to one side and gestured to Greg to move further forward.

"Excellent, thank you. Please see we're not disturbed," Mycroft replied.

"Very good, Mr Holmes." The man nodded and then left, closing the doors behind him.

Mycroft was still in his customary three piece suit but his jacket was unbuttoned, his tie was loosened and his hair had started escaping from it's usual slicked down confinement. Under other circumstances Greg would've found a slightly dishevelled Mycroft Holmes even more attractive than normal but the man looked exhausted, almost as tired as Greg felt, and the reason for both their states meant that for once Greg wasn't in the mood to be sympathetic. Mycroft was usually pretty brusque with him - it was past time for a little payback.

"What's going on, Mycroft? It had better be something even more serious than what's already happening. London is literally burning and you've whipped me all the way out here when I should be back there doing my job."

Mycroft put his elbows on the table and rubbed at his eyes with his index fingers. "It is far more serious than you or anyone else might realise, Detective Inspector, and your job… Your job is precisely why I've brought you here."

Greg folded his arms. "Really not in the mood for riddles - and it's Greg. Told you often enough before. I wouldn't even have come if we weren't on first name terms."

Mycroft looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot and heavily bagged. "Forgive me… Greg. I've been dealing with politicians all day and the habit of obfuscation is hard to break." He put his hands flat on the table and pushed himself up to a standing position. "Could I offer you a drink? A whisky and water, perhaps?"

Greg weighed up his options. Even if he left right now he probably wouldn't get back to London for at least another hour. He let his arms drop. "Yeah, go on then. Just a small one, though."

Mycroft crossed to a side table, laden with a large array of decanters. He selected one and poured two measures from it before adding a splash of water to each.

He handed one to Greg then raised his glass. "To your health."

"Sláinte" Greg replied. They both took a drink.

Greg closed his eyes as he felt the warmth spread from his throat throughout what felt like his whole body. "Mmm. That's a good drop."

"You always did like it."

Greg's eyes snapped open and he looked quizzically at Mycroft, who hastily added, "I mean, I understand you've always enjoyed whisky."

"Yeah, ever since I could afford it, anyway." Greg finished his drink and put the glass back down on the side table. "Come on, Mycroft. Cut to the chase. Why am I here?"

Mycroft sighed, threw back the rest of his drink and put the glass down. "Come with me."

Greg followed as he walked to the middle of the other side of the room, stepped between two of the suits of armour and turned a short dagger mounted on the wall through ninety degrees from vertical to horizontal.

A concealed door swung open in front of them.

The light from the room behind them showed a stone stair leading down for about fifteen feet before it curved gently away to the left and out of sight.

Mycroft bizarrely picked up his umbrella from where it had been propped unnoticed against the wall beside the door and glanced back at Greg as he started down the stairs.

Greg raised his eyebrows but didn't comment as he followed. If this passage or tunnel or whatever led back outside they'd certainly need the brolly - and to be fair he'd seen Mycroft do far more inexplicable things which turned out to be perfectly rational later. He'd earned a certain degree of trust.

They reached the start of the curve and as the light from the dining room faded behind them, Greg became aware of a softer flickering light ahead. The stair gradually turned them back upon themselves and brought them out somewhere underneath the dining room, into a circular cavern about fifty feet across and twenty high. The walls were rough hewn stone but the floor was paved in a symmetrical pattern spreading out from the centre point.

It was lit by regularly spaced wall sconces and a huge flaming chandelier hanging from the ceiling which had to hold at least sixty massive candles. They all looked real and Greg couldn't see any wires or gas pipes but the room had definitely been in darkness when they started down the stairs so how were they lit now?

"Mycroft, what the hell is going on? Hidden passages and flaming torches? This feels like a Famous Five adventure or something and I'm way too old for that shit."

Mycroft stopped in the centre of the room and turned back to face him. His face was as grave as Greg had ever seen it.

"I have a lot to tell you and it will sound like a flight of pure fantasy so I think it's best if I first show you something and then we can take it from there."

"OK," Greg said hesitantly.

Mycroft suddenly dropped to one knee. He held his umbrella across the flats of his palms and offered it up to Greg with his head bowed.

Greg frowned. "This isn't funny, Mycroft."

"And I'm not joking, I promise. Please, take it - by the handle," he added hastily as Greg reached out both hands.

Greg let his left hand drop back to his side and took hold of the horned handle with his right. "I don't see what… Fuck me!"

The umbrella in his hand shimmered and suddenly he was clasping a two foot long broadsword.The firelight flickered along the razor sharp edges, picking out intricate runic inscriptions carved into the fuller.

Greg was certain that ten seconds ago he hadn't even known that 'fuller' was the proper term for the groove along the sword's length.

He stepped back and swung the sword in a lazy arc through the air in front of him - then swung it in a far more complicated pattern, circling it around his body in a bright blur as he slashed, parried and thrust at an imaginary opponent.

He stopped, holding the sword straight out in front of him, steady as a rock and breathing only a little heavier than normal.

He looked sideways at Mycroft who had risen to his feet and was regarding him with a proud smile.

"How do I know how to do that?" Greg asked him.

"Because you are Arthur, King of the Britons, Defender of the Realm, and the rightful wielder of Excalibur."

Greg gave that a moment's consideration.

"Bollocks!"

"I assure you it's the truth."

"I suppose that makes you Merlin, does it?"

Mycroft smiled, bowed deeply and, as he straightened up again, his suit flared out into a full length robe of deepest black velvet, studded with tiny diamonds as if he was wearing the midnight sky.

"Jesus Christ!" Greg exclaimed.

"No, you were right the first time. I am Myrddin Emrys, Merlinus Ambrosius, Merlin the Immortal - and your most loyal servant."

"But I'm... I'm not… I'm _me_!" Greg protested. "I grew up on a council estate in Bristol. Isn't Arthur meant to be buried under a hill somewhere, asleep with all his knights?"

"Arthur has indeed been asleep - but buried within you, not under a hill. Your knights are likewise sleeping, waiting only for your call to awake. Many of them you know already. You are drawn to each other in each life."

"Each life? LIke a reincarnation thing?"

"Of a sort. You are not always present. Your spirit only reappears in a suitable form at times of need."

Greg blew out a long breath.

"This is… this is fucking insane, that's what this is. I can't be a king!"

"You are brave, loyal, fair, decent, noble and modest. You work for the good of your fellow man and inspire others around you to do the same. Which qualifications do you think you're lacking?" Mycroft asked.

"I'm pretty certain Liz isn't just going to hand over the throne because I'm a 'decent' bloke."

"No, nor shall you be claiming it - not in that way anyway. There used to be an agreement of sorts but it has long since lapsed after the line of succession took a few… detours. I doubt any record remains of the arrangement beyond a few half-remembered myths."

Greg twirled the sword around with a lazy movement of his wrist. It felt… right. Weird, but right. Like riding a bike, something he hadn't done in ages but his body remembered all the motions. He could sense the missing weight of a shield on his other arm, almost smell the scent of oiled leather and armour.

He wanted to get on a horse. He'd never even been near one except for the mounted patrols at football matches but now he wanted to get a massive destrier under him and ride it at full tilt...

"It's… it's good to see you again, sire."

Mycroft sounded a little emotional and when Greg looked over at him, his eyes were shining.

"Have you been asleep too?" Greg asked him. "When did you find out you were Merlin?"

"I... I have always been here. You and your knights sleep but I must remain ever vigilant so you can be awakened when the time of greatest need arises."

"Yes, well, it's certainly that. But, hang on… that means you must be…"

"Nearly two thousand years old, yes."

"Well you look damn good for it!" Greg grinned.

Mycroft… blushed?

And Greg, entirely without thinking about it, found himself taking a step forward with the sole intention of holding him.

As he moved he also, without thinking, made to sheathe his sword in a scabbard that wasn't there. "Oh." He looked around for somewhere to put it but the cavern was entirely bare and he didn't think you could really leave Excalibur just lying on the floor.

"Allow me." Mycroft made a gesture with his hand and an ornately decorated scabbard appeared on a wide belt around Greg's waist. He slid the sword into it as naturally as putting his reading glasses in his jacket pocket. The weight at his hip should have felt weird but instead it was comfortingly familiar.

"Thank you."

Mycroft nodded.

Now he was no longer holding a sharp length of metal, Greg closed the distance between them. "Mycroft… sorry, Merlin." He shook his head. "No, no, still can't get used to that, sorry. Mycroft…"

"Mycroft is fine," the man in question reassured him.

"We… we were close, weren't we?"

"Indeed. I have been your closest confidant for many--"

"No... No." Greg moved right up into Mycroft's personal space. "We were close," he insisted. "Intimate close. Lovers close."

Mycroft swallowed thickly and looked down. "I... I wasn't sure how much or how quickly you'd remember," he said.

"I... don't? I mean I don't remember anything specific but I just… know it." Greg paused as he tried to think how to explain it. "Like using the sword. It's who I am, even if I don't really believe it yet. I just… know. I know how to wield a sword, how to fight, how to ride. My head hasn't remembered it yet but… my body does. It knows."

He put his hand out and tilted Mycroft's head up so he could meet his eyes again. "It knows _you_. It remembers you."

He leaned in, stopped millimetres from Mycroft's lips and whispered, "It wants you," before closing the last of the distance between them.

Mycroft 's arms slid around him as their bodies melded together with an ease borne of long association. They came up for air and Greg chuckled. "Is this why I've always fancied you?"

"Yes," Mycroft said, simply.

Greg frowned. "Do I… Do I always?"

"It has been impossible to tell for large periods of time. As I said, you are not always present. You only reappear at times of potential need and though you always find me, it has rarely been safe for either of us to express our desires openly on the matter."

"Fuck, no, I suppose not." Greg brushed away the curl of Mycroft's hair that had fallen across his forehead and stretched up to kiss it. "But I do. It's something else I just know. I have always wanted you, Mycroft. Every time we've met. Even if I couldn't say so, I did. I don't remember anything of my past lives but..."

Greg paused. That wasn't true, was it? Little scraps were surfacing like things bubbling to the top in a cauldron.

"Sire?"

"Second World War. You… you were in Churchill's War Cabinet."

"Yes. and you were a Military Police Sergeant on my protection detail. Your name was William Hartford and you were from Devizes in Cornwall. It was the closest I've come to waking you in a while. The tide turned, thankfully."

"I would watch you at your desk for hours. I wanted to rub your shoulders, help you relax. Wanted to rub quite a lot of you in fact."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "You never said. Not once."

"No. So much for being brave."

"There is a huge difference between bravery and foolhardiness." Mycroft kissed him, a small sweet peck on the lips. "Never rash, always resolute. That's you."

"I..." Greg shook his head. More and more flashes of times past were playing in his memory and in every one Mycroft - Merlin - was there. "Two thousand years. That's a long time to wait."

"It hasn't been that long since I last had to give you your sword. You'll recall other times as your memories return."

Greg stepped back and looked down at the weapon by his side. "So what happens now? I'm not sure how much use a sword is going to be in this kind of fight."

"You only say that because you don't yet know the extent of what - and who - we are fighting. I will explain everything on the way back to London. Before anything else, we need to rally the troops."

And again, Greg just _knew_. "So, Baker Street then?"

"Yes." Mycroft smiled. "We'll wake Bedivere and Kay first, then head for Scotland Yard."

"Might not let me in the door with this."

"With what?" Mycroft smiled impishly.

Greg looked down again. Mycroft's umbrella was hanging by its handle from his suit jacket pocket. He lifted it out and tentatively touched the folds of fabric in the middle which proved to be exactly what they looked like.

"I always knew there was more to that brolly than met the eye, Mycroft."

"Indeed, as there is to you - but the time for concealed weapons is almost past and our enemies are in for a far more rude awakening than the one I have given you."

"Lead on then, I'm right behind you."

Mycroft gave a short bow, his cloak evaporated away back into the familiar suit and he headed for the stairs. "And that is how I know we shall prevail…"


End file.
